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He opened the spoon. It was unlike other spoons, in that he had to tug a bit more firmly, and twist every so often, but the spoon opened. He gazed inside, tasted the black nothingness of the spoon wall. He stuck his head in, and stared at the fork. The fork was unlike an object he'd ever seen before: robust, pointy, and with a hint of delicatessen. He removed the fork and proceeded to engulf it into his eyeball. Liquid pain. He loved the taste of it. He enjoyed himself immensely, diving into the crystalline sea, rotting his own bones.

"Charles? Where are you, Charles?"

A cat scratched its nose. He sprawled out of his fluid pain and emptied the abyss. A womanly scream, followed by a darkened scream. He was not enjoying this. He sobbed and sobbed until the spoon came back. Oh, spoon, the one thing I can never get rid of, he thought. His hands were pulled sideways and ripped off of his torso. Liquid pain. He screamed in ecstacy, and bathed himself in the fluid. He heard a firm crack, like robbing a butterfly of its wings, and he looked up into the jet-black sky. He recalled the vivid rainbow, the touches of magma in each carefully-placed brush stroke, the feeling of excitement as he rubbed it over his wrist, the magma oozing out of his flesh--no longer flesh, as it had been peeled back years before, during an excavation of the Grand Mal.

"Charles, for the love of God, please stop!"

He stared behind him. A vivid portait of Death and Eternity sprawled at his feet. He no longer cared for them, as he knew better the path he would take, the path of the spoon. His moon stood up, as if to say, "You've been doing the right thing!" and Charles, for that is the man's name, smiled peacefully. The fork disappeared from his hand, and it was in the grasp of Eternity; he reached out and grabbed it, and, with a tug, retrieved it, and threw the fork at Eternity in the right graski. Its graski now shot, Eternity wept, as Death looked on in horror. Death's horrifically deep scream shocked the man-Charles. He had never heard of such a masculine sound, and his skin throbbed in the sound of it. The smell of magma came from his coconut husk as he pushed it towards Death's face, as if to stop the scream. Muffled chokings, and Death was dead. He saw a screwdriver in the corner; perhaps to build a tomb for Eternity, he scrawled towards it, hand in leg, and snagged the flat-head. His face felt delightful, and he reached into the screwdriver and pulled out a crate. Twisting the crate, he entered a state of permanent bliss.

---

"In recent news, the death of thirty-two-year-old Charles Norfolk and his parents, Maria and Gregory Norfolk, has been ruled a murder-sui'cide. Autopsy reports detail that Mr. and Mrs. Norfolk had attempted to put up a fight but were struck down and killed by a bowling ball and sharp knife, respectively. The son, Charles, had been killed in what appeared to be a sui'cide, with a bullet wound in his right temple. More to come at six."

===So, I made this while high off of some sort of paint chemical thing, and posted it on my Facebook, which I would only do if I was high off of something. Re-reading it, I understand what I was trying to do, but I failed to grasp the necessary length to make it more surprising. Regardless, I hope you "enjoy" this short story.